Secretary
by NQDonne
Summary: my own re-working of the brilliant film Secretary, ala Draco & Hermione. After suffering a self-inflicted accident, Hermione must be tutored by Draco and they both discover that with some “unusual” therapy (S&M alert!), they can find themselves, and
1. Exposition

A/N: as this is all a take on Secretary, not everything can stay strictly canon. I did, however, try to create personas for Hermione & Draco that keep with their personalities in HP.  
  
Thanks to my beta for this one, Mexx, who inspired me with her delightfully dark "Wax in Hell" (which will probably be retitled soon.). She rocks. And thanks to my best friend & fellow BU-y, Katherine for demanding that I write more.  
  
I'm very needy. Yes, it's sad, but I NEED feedback, particularly as this is my first D/Hr fic. Love me! (lol) I'm open to suggestions in terms of fleshing out some of the descriptive bits, too.  
  
If you want to share the LJ love, check out mine, friend me, and leave comments!   
  
***  
  
Hermione  
  
I was always a chronic over-achiever. Everything I did had to be perfect, the best, and this was the way that I liked it. Alas, though I strove for perfection, my life was far from perfect.  
  
I don't know when I started hurting myself, maybe it was when I began at Hogwarts, or it could have been a few years after. All I know is that I liked how the pain made me feel real, like I was really there.  
  
My parents loved each other, I knew that, but sometimes when my dad drank, things would get really bad. They'd fight a lot; I think I inherited my fighting spirit from both of them. Listening to the two of them shoot clever yet hurtful remarks at each other was a regular activity of mine. I would lie on my stomach at the top of the stairs, so they couldn't see me crouched there, and I would draw their arguments in. I hated every minute of it, but at the same time I couldn't tear myself away.  
  
My parents loved me, of course. But in all the wrong ways, it seemed. Mum always doted on me - I was her 'perfect girl'. In some ways, it was like she was living through me. Whenever I accomplished some great task, I swear she seemed happier about it than I was. When I was young, she would sign me up for all sorts of activities, like ballet, girls' football, and piano lessons, telling me "I always wished I could do these things when I was a girl." I always complied, for her. In many ways I think I got the grades that I did for her, too. Her and my dad.  
  
As much as Mum was clingy, Dad was the opposite. He was the firm one, always laying down the law and keeping track of my academic pursuits. "Hard work," he told me, "will get you everything you want in life." Dad worked hard; he always seemed to be working. He and mum had a dental practice together, but it always seemed like he worked twice as many hours as she did. It was from him that I learned my love of books. Sometimes it seemed as though he loved me through literature. Instead of telling me that he loved me, he would read me some grand tale about father/daughter bonding, or the like. I was his little girl, though I never dared act the part. Our family was not an overly sentimental one.  
  
Harry and Ron were the first real friends I had. Our first two years at Hogwarts, our adventures drove me, that and schoolwork, of course. At some point, though, our lives began to diverge, as they naturally would. I was a very different sort of person than the two of them. Ron came from an overly affectionate family, but could never express his emotions seriously. Harry had lived a life devoid of love and acceptance until he came to Hogwarts, and then would let his emotions boil over in a wild fury, and suffocate those around him. Suffocate me, mostly. And me. I wasn't sure what I was. I lived through my work and experienced emotion through pain.  
  
At first, the mental exhaustion I experienced as a result of my course overload third year was enough. It exhilarated me. When I decided to drop a few classes to make life more manageable, however, I felt the need for more tangible pain. As I was helping Harry study curses to assist him in the Tri-wizard Tournament, I discovered that many of them could easily be applied to one's self, and then healed with a simple Healing spell. I only did it once or twice fourth year, but the sense of relief and satisfaction that I gleaned from the act drove me to further experimentation the next year.  
  
My friends didn't notice, of course. I was increasingly spending less and less time with them, as they were with me. Ron was completely wrapped up in his Quidditch woes, and Harry was being a waspish, bitter, asshole. He should have tried my method. It leaves one quite sedated.  
  
I always made sure to hex myself in unseen areas, like my upper thighs, hips, and on my torso. Even after a Healing spell, there were always bruises, and occasionally a scar or two, but my Hogwarts' uniform and robes covered those rather nicely. This is how I played my game all through sixth year. Whenever I was feeling particularly stressed - around exams, when Ron or Harry was being a prat, when I received a disturbing letter from either one of my parents, I would perform a hex or curse that would cause my skin to burn, crack, and bleed, then I would heal myself, and go about my business. If I ever looked worn out after one of my sessions, I would explain it away by saying that I was just feeling particularly overworked. Which I often was, of course.  
  
The day it happened, I was feeling particularly anguished over something scathing that Professor Snape said in Potions class. He usually didn't get to me, but it had been an extremely bad week and everything had been building up to that point. Maybe that's what led me to be so careless. Harry, Ron, and I returned to Gryffindor Tower after class and I excused myself, citing that I needed to do some homework before dinner. I had, say, a ten minute window in which to do it, but I waited until the last minute. I should have known that one of them would come up to check on me. Especially considering that the two of them, put together, were clever enough to figure out the charm on the stairs to the girls' dormitories and to remove it.  
  
Harry knocked, but I didn't hear it, as I was muttering the hex that would cut my upper arm. He crept in, saw what I was doing, and cried, "Hermione!" It was so loud, abrupt, and unexpected that I lost my concentration, and cut way too deep. I could feel the blood gushing down my arm, but didn't have the presence of mind to perform the Healing spell that would make it stop.  
  
In a sudden move, Harry lunged forward and caught me before I hit the ground. I had fainted, which was funny because I'd done this a million times before and had never so much as swooned.  
  
I woke up a few hours later in the Hospital Wing, with Harry, Ron, Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore peering down at me. To this day, they are the only four people who know why I was sent away from Hogwarts for the entire month of October.  
  
***  
  
Draco  
  
I had control over my life; I was always looking for control. Which was probably why I hated my father so much. He was a control-freak if I ever saw one. However, I'm not really sure from where I got my driving need for control.  
  
I was a meticulous child; I liked to play structured, logical games as opposed to frivolous imaginative ones. The weaker children were drawn to me, which cultivated my talent as a natural leader. I loved to organize war games among my playmates, in particular. I can still vividly remember the summer we had an all-out girls against boys water-wand war. Naturally, I was the captain of the boys' team. Crabbe and Goyle were my seconds in command. Not that I considered them intelligent in any way. Far from it - what they lacked in brains, they made up for in brawn. They still flank me wherever I go, though I grew to a point where I could defend myself quite some time ago.  
  
But my desire to be a leader didn't spontaneously occur. My parents had an influence on that particular character trait. Despite their less than united union, put together, my parents did quite a job on me. My father demanded perfection, my mother placated me by simpering, "Be Mummy's little soldier." He wanted me perfect - formed in his image, and she wanted me to fight against him.  
  
I'm not even sure that my parents hated each other or anything. They were simply indifferent. As long as they kept up certain appearances, it didn't matter what things were like on the inside. Which is probably why I ended up the way that I did. As long as I put on the show of being strong, being in control, it didn't matter who I was as a person. Appearances were what mattered. Draco was Daddy's perfect boy and Mummy's little soldier. He would grow up, go to Hogwarts - where he would, of course, excel, and join the ranks of the Dark Lord and his followers. This was the plan.  
  
My father should have known that he couldn't fuck me over and expect me to like it. I'm just as much of a Malfoy as he is - and I am always in control. I decided that, just to spite him, that I would not become a Death Eater. In fact, I would pursue the very filth that he sought to snuff out. I would court a Mudblood. But not just any Mudblood, of course. I would seek out the most uppity Mudblood in all of Hogwarts, and I would make her my bitch.  
  
Of course, this meant that I had to find a way to be alone with Granger. All through sixth year, she seemed to be spending less and less time with those simpering prats Pothead and Weasel, but the situation never presented itself in which I could will her to me, and take her over. I had quite given up by seventh year, but then a Godsend happened: Granger took ill with a serious case of some Muggle disease (Mentositis? Something like that), and was out of school for a month.  
  
Naturally, she fell behind on her schoolwork, though I heard she had begged to be given work during her stay in a Muggle hospital, but they refused. Upon her return, Granger needed to be tutored, and who better to help her out than Hogwarts second best student, Draco Malfoy? I can never thank Professor Snape enough for making that suggestion. Though I'm rather sure he thought it would annoy the hell out of me as opposed to make me a very happy boy, indeed.  
  
End Part One 


	2. Crazed & Confused

Title: Secretary (2/?)  
  
Author: Alexa Thain  
  
Summary: my own re-working of the brilliant film Secretary, ala Draco & Hermione. After suffering a self-inflicted accident, Hermione must be tutored by Draco and they both discover that with some "unusual" therapy (S&M alert!), they can find themselves, and love. It may sound trite, but this is anything but mindless fluff!  
  
Genre: Angst, Smut  
  
Rating: I'll start with R, may be NC-17 if I'm brave.  
  
Disclaimer: All references to Secretary, it's plot, or lines from the film belong to Erin Cressida Wilson, the screenwriter and to Mary Gaitskill, the author of the original story. HP belongs to JKR, aka: God (just took the title from Joss Whedon).  
  
A/N: Mexx is cool. And from now on, each POV will start off with a Fiona Apple lyric, cause I just *love* her music. Mostly I was just giddy about finding one or two potential D/Hr songs, so I had to include them. Forgive me.  
  
And thanks *so* much to all the ppl. who have kindly reviewed. You've spurred me on...  
  
Part Two  
  
Hermione  
  
//I've acquired quite a taste for a well-made mistake. I wanna make a mistake. Why can't I make a mistake?//  
  
The official story was that I had contracted Meningitis, a potentially deadly Muggle disease. I don't know why Dumbledore decided to go with such a notoriously nasty disease, maybe he thought it would increase the believability that it had incapacitated me to such a degree that I couldn't continue at Hogwarts. After all, who would believe that Hermione Granger would stop attending classes for something minor like Pneumonia or Mononucleosis? He even went so far to protect me that he subjected everyone in Gryffindor Tower to a Meningitis test, as it was quite contagious. Though incredibly freaked out by the whole ordeal, Harry and Ron kept up the ruse among our housemates.  
  
In reality, I was sent to a Psychiatric Hospital in Edinburgh. It was an intensely ugly place - eight stories high, made out of murky white cinderblock and having very few windows. As a result, very little sunlight fed into the building, though it wasn't the only thing that made it a dark place to be.  
  
I hated it there, even though I knew that I had a problem that needed solving. Everyone there treated me like a china doll - like I would break. They coddled me and even (dear God) used baby-talk with me. Had they not taken my wand away upon my arrival, I would have hexed them into oblivion. And I didn't even have any schoolwork to take my mind off the hell that I was enduring. They said I needed my rest; that I needed to heal.  
  
The worst part, by far, was my therapy sessions. I hated them with a fiery passion. Five times a week, I was led to Dr. Songie's office, where I was made to lie down on a puce colored couch and to pour out all my feelings to some git who pretended to care. Well, that's harsh. I'm sure he did care, but he knew sod all about psychology. I've read many books on the subject, and he couldn't have pegged the source of my problem if I had stripped off my clothes, started cheerleading, and spelled it out for him.  
  
At first, I tried my damnedest to blow off the sessions. I would sit and nonchalantly make up any thing that crossed my mind. I had him convinced that I had a serious Freudian Oedipus complex for a while. Which proves what a right prat he was, as I'm not a boy, nor do I wish to have sex with my mother.  
  
However, in due time I realized that they wouldn't let me leave the hospital until I proved to them that I was getting better. And I wanted nothing more than to get back to Hogwarts, where I could throw myself into my schoolwork and forget this whole ordeal ever happened. So I pretended. I even managed to have a "break through," where I cried over my own dejected situation and bemoaned my self-destructive ways.  
  
I should have been an actress.  
  
They let me start to attend group sessions, where I patted my fellow nutcases on the back when they made a break-through, cried when I felt the need to "empathize," and flashed triumphant smiles at the therapist when they congratulated me on "strengthening the resolve in the group."  
  
They said that I recovered in record time. By mid-November, I was back at Hogwarts. Dumbledore nearly had to send me back to the hospital when I realized how much work I had missed - I practically went into cardiac arrest right then. I was told not to worry, as I would be supplied with a tutor who would help me get back on track. I would also have all of the Christmas Holidays to catch up on the work I had missed as well as to complete any new work assigned from the time I got back to the end of the term.  
  
Though I may have been bowled over by the amount of work for which I was responsible, that didn't mean that I wasn't looking forward to it. Sure, I hated being in the hospital and took the whole affair almost as a joke, but that didn't mean that I couldn't understand my condition. For the sake of my friends and family, I had to stop hexing myself. Thus, going into complete overhaul in terms of my studies was a welcome distraction from the temptation to whip out my wand and say those choice words whenever I was feeling stressed. And this was the only reason that I actually agreed to let Malfoy be my tutor. As always, he would be a king- sized prick, and I could fight with him as much as a pleased, thus releasing my "inner-demons" (Dr. Songie and his bloody psycho-babble).  
  
It just so happened that I got back to school on the day of the first Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Though I would have liked nothing more than to take a long, luxurious bath and curl up with a good book, Harry and Ron insisted that I go to the match and cheer them on. They were trying to act as normal as possible, but it was quite obvious that they just didn't want to leave me alone. I agreed reluctantly, as I knew that otherwise they'd just find someone to baby-sit me for the next few hours.  
  
I really didn't like Quidditch. Nor any sport, for that matter, so it was nothing specific to the wild Wizard sport. Of course, for years I always went to the games to cheer Harry - and later Ron - on, but more often than not I was bored out of my mind. Once or twice I brought a book with me, but the looks I got from my fellow Gryffindors convinced me that this wasn't the best course of action. That day, however, it wouldn't have surprised me if they would have gladly let me read. The pity hung off their faces and danced in their eyes. I didn't mind it, though, since they thought I had just gotten over some terrible illness. I was suddenly very glad that Dumbledore hadn't told anyone about my true condition. Those looks of pity would have continued on until the day that I died, and it would have irked me beyond belief.  
  
The game continued on in all its infantile glory, as I sat in the stands, peering up nonchalantly at Harry looking for the Snitch. He should really consider getting contacts, it would make playing the game easier. To my great joy (sarcasm), Malfoy took notice of me. Now, it's not that he was a crap Quidditch player, but he always played the game wrong. When he wasn't tailing Harry or trying to mess him about, he was preening himself and flashing smiles at the Slytherin girls. That day, however, he reached a new low in fucking up the game - he decided to pick on me.  
  
"Hey, Granger!" he taunted, hovering just in front of the Gryffindor box. Naturally, I didn't respond to his petty childishness. "Back so soon? Too bad, really. We were all taking bets on how long it would take you to kick the bucket." He smirked at me, the bastard.  
  
"What a pity that you didn't die, Granger. One less Mudblood in the world would have been lovely." I wanted to hurl myself over the side of the tower, grab that smug bastard by the collar, and shake him for all he was worth. But as I was fifty feet off the ground and he was safely riding his broom, I decided against it. Instead, I turned on my heel, and ran back to Hogwarts.  
  
I hated him! Not that I'd expected anything different from Malfoy. However, I certainly didn't expect him to wish me dead in front of everybody mid-Quidditch match on my first day back. And, to be honest, I was rather emotionally unhinged by the whole thing.  
  
Which is probably why, upon entering my room in Gryffindor Tower, I tore off my robes, rolled my skirt back off my thigh, and poised my wand to hex myself.  
  
I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, wand at ready. Did I want to do this? Yes. Should I do this? No. Did I care? Maybe.  
  
At long last, I collected myself and decided against the hex. I couldn't let Malfoy get to me like this. After all, I would be working with the prat for the next month, at least. And I couldn't go cutting myself every time he wished me dead. That would leave a lot of marks.  
  
I had to compose myself. In two days time I would be face to face with him, tucked away in a study room in the back corner of the library, listening to the smug bastard lecture me on all the work I'd missed. Why did I have to let the bloody wand cut so deep? Arguing with Malfoy had better cure me of the dark urges creeping about my skin.  
  
Draco  
  
//You'll never feel the heat of this soul. My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown - to you.//  
  
Granger didn't look at all happy. In fact, she looked quite pissed off. Though it was lovely to see the little bitch as smug as ever, I would have imagined that someone who had just gotten over a potentially fatal- disease would at least looked a little winded. But all the better for me: it's easier to torment someone when they don't look all sickly like. If I played my cards right, I could make this even better than mussing her up at the Quidditch game. Damn, that was bloody wonderful. I'd never seen her so miffed. I wondered why she didn't try and curse me. Better for me that she didn't, though.  
  
I couldn't wait to see what kind of response I could elicit out of Granger now that I was solely responsible for her first term marks. It was delightfully naughty, the spin that Snape had placed on this assignment. Apparently he hated Granger as much as he was irked by me (or my father, more specifically), so he decided that her grade in Potions would be incumbent upon my evaluation of her performance in our tutoring sessions. And I planned to make her suffer.  
  
All things being relative, this skanky room in which they expected me to tutor her was disgusting. No one had probably been back here in, say, ten years. I used a few cleaning spells that I knew before the Mudblood arrived, which improved the dank corner a bit. Not by much, though, but at least now that the dust was off the windowpane in the far northeast corner of the room, and a little light could enter the space.  
  
As I said, when Granger showed up (half past three, on the dot) she looked positively incensed. "What Granger? Not happy to see me?" I drawled. I love drawling, I'm very good at it.  
  
She didn't answer. Someone had obviously informed her of the bearing my word would have on at least one of her grades, and she seemed intent not to piss me off. Yet.  
  
I smirked at her. This would be very fun. If Granger wasn't on the offensive today, I could do anything to her that I liked. Making her my bitch was becoming increasingly easy.  
  
"Well, come here." I commanded, pointing to one of the musty old armchairs situated along the right-hand wall. I waited for her to sit down. Eventually she concurred, and I sat myself down in the chair opposite hers. "So, Hermione," I queried, making my voice particularly condescending and cajoling, "do you have any pets?"  
  
"What?" she asked me, incredulously.  
  
"Just answer the question. I'm curious." I didn't actually give a damn whether or not Granger had any pets, but watching her squirm was amusing.  
  
"Um, yes. I have a cat. Named Crookshanks."  
  
"Lovely. And where are you from? Do you live with your parents, in a house or in a flat?" This was brilliant; she was practically seething.  
  
"Woking, Surrey. I live with my parents, in a house." Granger answered me through clenched teeth.  
  
"Hmm," I nodded, keeping my expression and tone very simpering and mock-sweet, hiding my surprise at the fact the she lived no more than two hours from me. "Hermione, do you want me to be your tutor?" I made sure to stress her first name in such a way that would irk her. It took quite a bit of effort actually, as I'd never called her by her first name before. It felt foreign on my tongue.  
  
"It's not like I have a choice," she countered, "I want to bring my grades up. And if that means that I have to be tutored by you, so be it."  
  
Oooh. She was angry. Bloody fantastic.  
  
"Yes, I see. Of course the entire thing will most likely be bloody boring. I have no patience for Mudbloods such as yourself. I'm sure we won't have anything to say." Well, that was bloody true.  
  
"I like being bored." If looks could kill, Granger would have knocked down all of Gryffindor tower with the look she was giving me.  
  
I stared straight into her fiery eyes, "And you haven't missed much. It's going to be very dull work."  
  
"I like dull work."  
  
I wasn't expecting that. Granger was matching me blow for blow. If she weren't such a bint and if I weren't hell bent on beating her into submission, I might be impressed by her intellect. But I wasn't. Instead, I was annoyed. She was beginning to piss me off.  
  
End Part Two 


	3. The Art of Drinking a Butterbeer

Part Three  
  
A/N: Love to Maureen, I stole your drug quote. Bwahahahahaha! Thanks to Kat for *still* remembering all those insipid flirting tips from Cosmo. You're priceless.  
  
Obligatory Beta shout-out: Mexx is like crack. Very, very addictive.  
  
Hermione  
  
//I wouldn't know what to do with another chance if you gave it to me. I couldn't take the embrace of a real romance, it'd race right through me.//  
  
That arrogant prick! Not that I was expecting anything different, but just the idea that I couldn't talk back to him made it ten times worse. Snape must really hate me. I can't believe that Malfoy, of all people, gets a say in my marks. Knowing him, he'll fail me. Bastard.  
  
Moreover, what the hell was with those questions? Do you have any pets? Do you live with your parents? Flat or house?  
  
What drugs is he on, and can I have some?  
  
This was going to be difficult. Though I was a rather talented smart- ass, when I was trying to control the urge to hex Malfoy, my comments didn't sting quite as much as I would have liked.  
  
I trudged back up to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to go do some homework to take my mind of Malfoy. Instead, I was met by the concerned faces of Harry and Ron. I should have known it was coming. They may have left me alone for the past few days, but that didn't mean that we weren't going to discuss it eventually.  
  
Harry asked if we could talk in private. Reluctantly, I agreed. I wasn't exactly keen on having a heart-to-heart at the moment, but I knew this was a long time coming. We went up to my private room, to which I was entitled as Head Girl.  
  
"Hermione," Harry began tentatively, "we don't want you to feel like you're being attacked or anything."  
  
I smirked and retorted, "Harry, normally when one wants to convince someone that they're not attacking them, they don't tell them not to feel attacked. You simply don't attack."  
  
"Yes, well," he drifted off nervously, "We need to talk to you."  
  
"You already said that."  
  
Ron frowned disapprovingly, "Hermione, listen. We have to talk about your. problem."  
  
I rolled my eyes. This was just as painful as I suspected it would be. They were blithering on like idiots, avoiding the subject. "Yes, my. problem," I mocked and flashed them an expectant look. They were making it too easy for me to be a bitch.  
  
"We're worried about you, Hermione. We don't understand why you're doing this." Harry trailed off and he and Ron peered at me.  
  
Bloody great. They were tiptoeing around the whole issue. That pissed me off. "I don't know why I do it." Was I lying? I didn't actually know. "And it's not as simple as 'whoops, you have a problem - stop.'"  
  
Jesus Christ. Ron looked like he was going to cry. I softened my look slightly - but only slightly.  
  
"Hermione," Harry continued tentatively, "We're not asking you to just stop. We just. wish that you would talk to us about this. You don't have to go it alone, we're here for you."  
  
I sighed, huffily. "That's lovely Harry, Ron - really. I - I don't really want to talk about this now. I will when I ready, but that isn't now."  
  
The two of them exchanged a look. "Alright, then," Ron finally spoke. "You know where we are if you need us."  
  
They left. I threw myself down on the bed and pounded my fists against the mattress, digging my head into my pillow to muffle my screams. 'Frustrated' was hardly adequate to describe how I felt. First, Malfoy pissed me off royally at our study session, now Harry and Ron were preaching to me like they were my therapist or something. Why couldn't I just be left alone?  
  
The next two weeks progressed at what seemed a snail's pace. Harry and Ron were barely speaking to me - they walked on eggshells when they were around me. Classes were, for the first time, quite overwhelming - I really was behind. Worst of all, I continued to meet with Malfoy that every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Each time he was a complete ass and I refrained from snapping back at him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.  
  
Friday night the oddest thing happened. Ron asked me out on a date. And for some bizarre reason, I agreed to go. I wondered what it was that motivated Ron to suddenly starting talking to me again after a week and a half, but I didn't ask.  
  
The next day was a Hogsmeade visit, so it was rather easy for us to slip away somewhere. I actually felt rather bad for him - I made him take me to a bookstore. It was partly because I wasn't too keen on having a sit down meal on him, where he could gaze at me adoringly and whisper sweet nothings.  
  
I knew perfectly well that Ron had a crush on me, though I didn't return his feelings. Once upon a time I was interested, but at a point I realized that he was my bumbling best friend and not boyfriend material. Plus, quite frankly, I didn't find him even remotely sexually attractive. Was I leading him on by agreeing to go out with him? Yes. But I didn't care - I needed to go out with someone, try to feel something for someone.  
  
Ron looked particularly dejected as we entered Flourish and Blotts, though he tried to cover his apprehension. He looked ready to be absolutely bored and miserable for the next few hours. I decided to teach Ron Weasley that spending time in a bookshop can be fun, a lot of fun, in fact.  
  
I started by dragging him to the Self Help section. I hadn't yet browsed through the section in a Wizard shop before, but as Wizards usually adept when it came to expanding on what is normally hilarious in Muggle literature, I was sure we would be amused.  
  
I picked the first book that caught my eye and held it up to Ron, reading off the title, "Letting Go: How to Say Goodbye to Your Rabid Beanbag Chair." He grinned and I returned his pleased expression with my own smile. "See, bookstores can be fun. There's always something to ridicule."  
  
We both started browsing the shelves for more conversation fodder. I couldn't believe that anyone would *want* to read Potions, Spells and Lingere: Land the Wizard of Your Dreams, though maybe it was just disgustingly lude images of Professor Snape in a teddy that initiated that response. Ron turned to me, suddenly, holding up his find.  
  
"Witches Who Love Their Wands Too Much," he waggled his eyebrows at me.  
  
"Ugh, gross, Ron!"  
  
His grin fell and was replaced by his own disgusted expression, "It's better than the other book in the set." He held up Wizards Who Love Their Wands Too Much. I sniggered. I could practically see all the bad mental images that Ron was wrestling with, as he nearly turned green.  
  
He looked at me sheepishly. "Do you know anyone who.."  
  
"Likes to stick their wand up their bum? No, I don't. However, it would explain why Malfoy is so damn anal retentive."  
  
Ron broke into a grin. "That's better," I said. "I prefer you laughing as opposed to sick."  
  
"Thanks, Herm," he blushed crimson, "could we, um, *not* hang out in the Self-Help section anymore? I'm afraid of what else we might find."  
  
"Okay," I offered him my hand and we made our way towards the back corner of the store. Before we left the section, we did happen upon one more book that had Ron in stitches. I picked up Are You a Publicity Whore? and tried to find what Ron found so funny. Almost immediately I saw it - on the cover was picture of Gilderoy Lockhart.  
  
I put the book back on the display and dragged him closer to our destination - the magazine rack. Ron cast me a skeptical look and I simply smiled at him slyly.  
  
"And now, Ron Weasley, you can school me on the preferences of your sex."  
  
His jaw dropped. It was kinda cute. Playing with him was fun; why hadn't I tried this before? I grabbed a copy of Charming! magazine, with which I was familiar after years of hearing Parvati and Lavender giggling over the sexually explicit tips and tricks. Flipping through the magazine's pages, I flashed Ron a coy look and licked my lips a bit.  
  
You could have knocked him over with a feather. At last I found the perfect article: How to bewitch the wizards - a witch's how-to for flirting. I read Ron the title of the article and he rolled his eyes, though he couldn't seem to mask his obvious state of confusion and arousal.  
  
"Number one," I read off in a slightly high-pitched, mocking voice, "when talking to your potential sweetie, maintain eye-contact and be sure you use his name often when addressing him. He'll be sure to know that he's the center or your attention, and he'll find it sexy the way you utter his name!"  
  
I gazed up at him, "Well Ron, do you agree? Do men such as yourself, Ron, find it sexy when women utter your name?"  
  
"I, uh, um." he struggled.  
  
I laughed gaily, "Number Two: drink your Butterbeer from the bottle. Men *love* a woman who can knock a few back, like one of the guys." I paused dramatically. "I don't know Ron, I've always found that guys tend to ignore a girl who drinks like one of the guys. Do you think so? Have you noticed how I suck my Butterbeer from the bottle?"  
  
I was so bad. Let's just say it was a good thing that he was wearing his school cloak.  
  
Draco  
  
//My feelings swell and stretch, I see from greater heights. I understand what I am still too proud to mention - to you.//  
  
I couldn't bloody believe it. Granger was standing there in Flourish and Blotts spouting double entendres at Weasley. She was giggling at him and having sex with him with her eyes like an idiot. I was disgusted. But I couldn't seem to tear myself away.  
  
I peered at them from behind a particularly tall bookshelf. I couldn't see much of what Weasel was doing (why would I want to?), but I had a nice view of Granger acting like a little trollop.  
  
"Laugh at his bad jokes, so he feels special," she read.  
  
Ha! That *would* be rather appropriate for the Weasel. He couldn't make a woman laugh if his life depended on it. I was torn away from my thoughts as she giggled. For some reason, I found her laugh somewhat entrancing. It was light and airy, unlike anything I had ever heard out of her.  
  
"Eat a popsicle/ice cream cone/banana in his presence. It will make him think of what it would be like for you to lick a particularly delectable part of his anatomy," she prattled on, licking her lips.  
  
Weasley started shifting uncomfortably, and I could only imagine why. I, myself, was rather enthralled by her stunning performance. What the hell happened to Granger at that hospital?  
  
And what the fuck was she doing wasting all this shit on Weasley? I thought she had better taste than that. This led me to the more important matter at hand: what the fuck was I doing thinking that Granger had taste?  
  
I wanted to leave, but I couldn't will myself to do it. Instead, I stayed in my hiding place until the tart and her weasel left. I wondered if she was shagging him. Probably was. Heh! Maybe she wasn't in the hospital for Meningitis after all. Weasel probably gave her some STD.  
  
As soon as they were gone, I sauntered over to the Three Broomsticks to have a Butterbeer with Dumb and Dumber, aka Crabbe and Goyle. Problem was, as I drank my drink, I couldn't help but think of Granger, sucking on a bottle. Sodding bint. She was probably sucking off Weasel at the very moment.  
  
I decided to fuck with her at our little tutoring session on Monday. Then we'd see how fucking coy she could be.  
  
I hated fucking Mondays. Not only was I usually hung over from my Sunday evening "nightcap," but this term some bloody ponce decided to land me with double Transfiguration with fucking Harry Potter and his dream team and a healthy portion of Arithmancy with Granger first thing in the morning.  
  
On this particular Monday, however, I could at least look forward to toying with Granger. I was enjoying our little tutoring sessions. No matter what I said or did to her, the Mudblood wouldn't fight back. It was brilliant to see the anger dance in her eyes whilst her mouth stayed shut and her wand stayed at her side. Though I would have liked to have a good row with her every once and a while, just to get my adrenaline pumping.  
  
As usual, Granger was already there when I arrived in our study room. She was always annoyingly prompt.  
  
We had informally decided to cover Transfiguration and Arithmancy on Mondays, Charms and History of Magic on Wednesday, and Potions on Fridays. So, we set to work on some human-animal transfigurations. As always, the uppity bitch nailed it on her first go. I'd be damned if I admitted that it took me four tries. I really hated her sometimes.  
  
I suggested that we take a break, and she narrowed her eyes at me, as though suspicious that I was up to something. Well, I was, but it's not like she knew that. We sat on the couch, though she placed herself as far away from me as she could manage. She started tapping her fingers on the coffee table to her side.  
  
Willing her to stop the bloody annoying noise, I began my pleasant little interrogation.  
  
"Did you have a date recently?" I asked her, even though I knew the answer.  
  
"Yes." she drifted off, not quite sure why I was asking her.  
  
"With whom did you have a date?" Would she admit to going out with that Weasley twit?  
  
"Oh, um, Ron," she answered dutifully, though she was a bit unsure as to whether or not she should comply. I was trying to look friendly so as to initiate confrontation with her.  
  
"Did you shag him, Granger?" I didn't mean to sound so tart when I asked her that. Well, hell, yes I did. I hated that sodding git.  
  
"No!" she shrieked as she jumped off of the couch, suddenly deciding that she, indeed, wouldn't participate in my little game. I grabbed her hand and yanked her back down. "How dare you ask me such a question you, you. Malfoy."  
  
"Witty comeback." I liked playing with her like this. She was just so easy to provoke. I continued holding fast to her wrist and started the second vein of my teasing. "Are you shy, Hermione?"  
  
"Shy?" Ah, yes. She was looking at me as though I was crazy.  
  
"I'm shy." It came out a lot more earnest than I had intended. I was trying to be coy and smug, but for the first time I was having trouble masking the truth.  
  
"You're not shy," she countered, "You're Malfoy. If you're shy, then I'm Queen Elizabeth." She struggled against my firm grip, inching her body away from mine.  
  
I could have been funny and gotten down and kissed her feet or something, but instead I just said to her, "All hail the Queen."  
  
She was caught between believing me and thinking I was just joking. In truth, it was a little of both. "I overcome my shyness," I told her, "because I have to."  
  
Yes, this was good. I was disarming her; she didn't know how to respond.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She questioned, yanking her wrist from my grip and jumping to her feet. I simply chuckled. Hearing 'fuck' cross Granger's lips was so odd. I thought she was a bloody saint.  
  
She rolled her eyes, "Yes, I curse, for Christ's sake." Apparently she was a mind reader. I retained my snide grin and said nothing.  
  
"Damn it, Malfoy. Stop you mind-fucking diatribe and let us resume our studies."  
  
Somehow her mixing 'fuck' and the lofty use of 'let us resume our studies' didn't sit too well with me. "Alright," I answered, "but only if you stop mixing profanity with academia, it's just fucking wrong coming from you."  
  
"Fine," she huffed, and returned to the table to immerse herself in Arithmancy. I had her, I so had her.  
  
End Part Three 


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